Sane Again
by Lady Enelya
Summary: You cannot lose the two things that make your life worth it.  HouseCameron
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm back! No, my other stories aren't abandoned, for those of you who care. They'll be back soonish, I hope. For now, this is my latest inspiration. The grammar errors are on purpose, just so you know.

Disclaimer: Not mine. I cry about that…

She was born on a sunny, warm April afternoon. Your daughter; 7 pounds, 8 ounces of perfection. She had dark hair and your blue, blue eyes. When your wife handed her to you, you checked her toes, fingers, organs before determining that she was perfect and handing her back to your wife. Your wife.

Now, that's a tale. Who would ever expect you to get married? Especially to _her._ She was nearly 20 years younger than you, she was once your employee, and now she's your _wife_ and the mother of your perfect daughter.

Lindsay. You named her after your wife's favorite cousin. A cousin who died in Iraq. Lindsay Cameron House. You chose the middle name.

When you brought them home, your wife went to sleep while you brought Lindsay to her nursery. You sat with her in the growing dark, on a rocking chair, holding her little body while you promised her the world. While you promised her that you'd be better than your father. You promised her piano lessons, dance lessons. You promised to change the world if you had to. You made a promise to _try_ to give up the Vicodin…at least a bit. Maybe not entirely, but some.

When you looked down, you saw her looking up at you, with all the trust in the world, and for a moment, you felt unnerving fear. She smiled, and the doctor in you told you that she couldn't smile, not yet. But the father in you smiled back, and when she yawned, you laid her gently in her crib.

You went to sleep that night and dreamed of your daughter. You dreamed of a perfect little girl, with curly brown hair and blue, blue eyes. You saw her in a tutu, sitting at your piano. You saw her going to school, going to prom, graduating. You saw a beautiful, grown-up Lindsay in a wedding dress. You did _not_ wake up with tears in your eyes, no matter what your wife said.

Lindsay grew fast. Before long, she was walking, her chubby hand on the sofa for support. You smiled at her, and she reached up for you. You picked her up and set her on your good leg and tickled her, delighting in her giggles.

When she was two, she went potty on the toilet, and your wife screamed in delight. She was amazing, your wife told you. Two years old and already semi-potty trained. You smiled at Lindsay and told her what a big girl she was.

When Allison was bathing her one night, while you sat on the toilet, you noticed something was wrong. She had a few bruises on her shins. You brushed it off. She was only 2 ½. Over the next few days, you began noticing that the bruises were forming everywhere. When you spotted a petechia, you knew something was wrong. You brought her to Wilson the next day.

It took one look for you to know that it was serious, one look for you to call your wife. One blood test, one bone marrow aspiration to find out that your daughter had AML.

Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

Your perfect daughter had cancer. Your perfect daughter was dying.

That night, after Lindsay was asleep, after deciding that she would begin induction chemotherapy in a week, Allison let it out. She curled herself on the bed in a ball, sobbing against her knees. You wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, but your hand was gripping your cane so tightly that your knuckles were white, and if you had opened your mouth, sobs would have torn loose.

Later, when Allison was calm and you were both feigning sleep, she whispered out what both of you were thinking.

'what if she dies?' your heart fell as you tried to picture your life without your daughter. You couldn't.

'i can't…' you began, before your voice broke. Allison started crying again, softly at first, and then those terrible, gut-wrenching sobs. Wordlessly, you opened your arms and she crawled into them, and if she felt your tears, she didn't say anything.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter two, dear readers. Just as a reminder, I need reviews like House need Vicodin, so please hit that lovely purple button! Thank you!

Disclaimer: Not mine, blah blah.

She died on her fourth birthday. It was cold and rainy and it seemed fitting that your daughter came in with sunshine and left with rain. She was so brave. She had gone into remission two times during her fight, once for almost five months. Her hair had grown back, and Allison had smiled a real smile again.

Now, Allison is sleeping with the help of sleeping pills and you are in your daughter's room, staring into her closet and trying to think of what she should be buried in. You don't even notice the tears.

There's her blue dress, the one she wore for Christmas a month after her induction chemo. She was so sick that day, but she was determined to wear that dress. You look at it and think that it's about a size too small.

Your eyes find the dress she wore for Halloween when she was 3 ½. It was in the middle of her longest remission, and she wore a wig. Your mother had made the dress, called every day for measurements. Allison completed the ensemble with a tiara. That was it. She would be buried in this. You lift it gently from the bar.

You notice Allison is standing in the doorway, and she nods her approval before leaving. She can't bear to be in the room, and you don't blame her. It still smells like her, like little girl. You ache.

At the funeral, Allison stares straight ahead. You'd left strict instructions for god not to be mentioned, but aside from that, Cuddy and Wilson had arranged the funeral, because Allison wasn't in any state to and you were busy trying to keep her alive. You don't even hear what's being said.

She's lost four pounds since Lindsay died. You miss your daughter too, you would give anything to hear her laugh, you would trade places with her in a minute, but you refuse to let Allison stop living. Chase's words come from years ago come back to you. _I doubt she'll ever be sane again…her son just died._ You didn't know then what it would feel like. That fucking hole inside you…

It will devour Allison if you let it. You can't lose your daughter _and_ your wife. Despite appearances, you are not that strong. You cannot lose the two things that make your life worth it.

At the wake, you hear someone whisper cancer. You ponder the irony. You have saved countless lives, people with diseases other doctors couldn't figure out. Yet you knew exactly what your daughter had, exactly what was causing her pain, but you couldn't do anything about it.

Your mother is trying to comfort Allison, and you see your wife nod, your mother kisses her cheek and walk away. Allison catches your eye for a moment, before hers fill with tears and she looks away. You understand. Your daughter had your eyes, and you can't even look at yourself in the mirror. How could Allison look at you?

To be fair, however, it's hard for you to look at Allison, because Lindsay looked so much like her. You wonder if that will ever go away, or if it will be difficult for you to look at your wife for the rest of your life.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Woo-hoo, I'm back again!  I know that 'officially', it's looking like Huddy's the way to go, but I say eff that.  Some swearing coming up, and once again, grammatical errors are on purpose.

Disclaimer:  Still not mine.  If it were…well…yeah J

Sometimes, you'll wake in the middle of the night to the sound of her tears.  You sigh in relief when that happens, because you know that that means she's still alive.  Otherwise, you wouldn't really know.

She curls away from your touch on those nights.  Hell, on every night, but those crying nights are the worse.  All you want to do is hold her, tell her to let it out, tell her you're hurting too, in the worst way.  But you can't.  As soon as you reach for her, she freezes.  She'll shimmy to the very edge of the bed, sniffle once, wipe her eyes and tell you to go back to sleep.  That she's fine.

It's all complete bullshit.  You want more than anything to call her out on it.  She doesn't eat, doesn't really sleep—she's a zombie.  She hasn't been to work since…  She's (was) a complete neat freak, but she hasn't cleaned in over a month.  Dust is everywhere, and you finally cleaned up the kitchen when you realized that the milk was curdled.  That would never have happened before.

You go to work religiously now.  Get there at 8 in the morning; leave sometime around 9 at night.  Your instincts tell you that it's bad to leave Allison alone like that, but you can't bear to be in the house anymore.  It's so empty, and Allison's shuffling and dead stares make it worse. 

You're at a loss.  You don't know what to do.  It's killing you.  You've gone to Cuddy, who told you to make her talk about it.  You've talked to Wilson, who said that she would get better in time.  You even made a stop at Dr. Llewellyn's office.  He's the best psychiatrist in the area (but still somehow a complete fucking moron).  He didn't give you anything to go on. 

One night, you hear her sobbing harder than normal.  You are awake, of course, but you don't let her on to that fact right away, and when you do, it's to grab her.  You move faster than a cripple ought to, but the slow attempts of the past have taught you. 

You pull her to your chest, but she's frozen.

'i know, ally.  it hurts.  so goddamn much.  i don't know what to do, and i don't know what to tell you, but i'm dying without you.  please don't do this anymore.  i can't do this alone, ally.  please.'  You beg her, your own tears leaking out of the corner of your eyes.  She seems surprised, at first, but slowly, very slowly, she moves, wrapping her arms around you, and finally, she looks up at you.  And you see actual emotion, so strong that you're taken aback.

'i miss her so much, greg.  i don't know what to do.  i can't breathe, i can't do anything.' She whispers, and she starts crying again.  You kiss the top of her head, thinking that maybe now, things will get better.


End file.
